Does it Really Take a Village? Thoughts on Community & Isolation From a Travel-Loving Mama

I gave birth to my two sons on two different continents. With the first, I was home and my village was large, surrounded by friends and family, smothered by more visitors, casseroles, and give-me-that-baby arms than I could manage. With the second, there was almost no one. We were 9,000 miles away from family, smothering visitors, and greedy arms. There were a few short visits and casseroles from friends who loved us—Australian, South African, Swiss, and Hawaiian—but none of the comforts of home.

The difference made my head spin. I was surprised to discover I preferred the second way – with a much smaller village.

We spent the next five years moving house over and over again back home in the States, eventually shunning the “it takes a village idea” altogether and becoming a full-time nomad family for seven years. We saw 49 out of 50 U.S. states, visited more national parks and monuments than I can name, and, in many ways, gave our kids the kind of adventurous world-schooling childhood creative souls write storybooks about. On most accounts, though, we had to be our own village, depending on ourselves for almost everything our kids needed day-to-day.

Now, my baby boys have turned into 6-foot-tall teenagers, and I feel the season shifting. After years, we’ve found the place we want to call our home base indefinitely. My husband is everything I could ever want in a mate. I don’t even have words to tell you how much I enjoy my kids. We’ve made friends all over the world, and our extended family is extremely supportive. But I can’t deny the feeling that we still aren’t rooted in real community.

It feels like we gave up our chance at having a village. And as the gray hairs on my head multiply daily, I worry it’s too late to find one.

As I write this, it’s Sunday morning—another one. And although I know I should be enjoying my day of rest and worship with slow, intentional reading on the front porch, hiking out to watch the sun rise over the mountain that lives in my backyard, or maybe even enjoying an extra coffee or two, instead, I’m lying on my yoga mat stewing and planning. And worrying.

Tomorrow my kids will take their annual standardized tests—the stuff of nightmares for the desire-led, non-traditional, world-schooling homeschool parent that I am. So, my stress hormones are working overtime. Along with thoughts about all the things they might have missed while we were traveling and all the ways I’m trying to compensate that just aren’t working out right now—new friends, healthy food, and daily exercise claiming the top of the list.

But they don’t want to eat what I call healthy foods. They don’t want to exercise every day. And they don’t want to run headlong into awkward situations that might result in making a new friend or two. Now that they’re teenagers, I’m simply not the expert or rock star to them I used to be. They tell me they just want to chill at home—to read good books, play with their cat and each other, do some art, watch engineering videos, and conquer their individual video game worlds. I can’t help but wonder if that’s enough.

“I know what I should do,” I think, “I should buy new camping gear, something fun for hiking, or maybe those e-bikes we’ve been dreaming about. Then it’ll be so much easier to get them out for exercise every day and we’ll have a better chance at making friends.”

But my heart tells me buying something new won’t solve this deep ache in my soul. It’s an ache I can’t buy my way out of. I need community—real community.

Our life together is incredibly valuable. We have the kind of family relationships I thought were too good to be true. We’ve built a kind of family togetherness I hope to pass down to future generations—one full of big dreams, epic adventures, deep relationships, and valuable moments. It’s something I wouldn’t trade for anything. I can’t even tell you how grateful I am for it. I never want to lose even an ounce of it.

But after 16 years of being mom, cheerleader, coach, friend, cook, piggy bank, stand-in playmate, and teacher/principal/school superintendent for my kids, I’m realizing I can’t be all things to them. Perhaps I never really was. They need more. More voices than just mine and their dad’s and the books, movies, tv shows, and internet articles we run across. More perspectives. More stories. More experiences. More humans.

They need a village.

I need one, too. One full of women I can learn from, old souls I can commune with, friends I can be there for in-person with a cup of tea or a casserole or a friendly hug—ones who can be there for me, too.

Despite how I felt when my kids were younger, I see the value of the village now.

And despite what my boys say, I see their loneliness sometimes, too. But in all honesty, we’ve tried so many times. Homeschool groups requiring a political and religious tone we can’t adopt. Schools requiring a commitment we can’t give. Churches that just don’t feel right. Camps that end every Friday. Volunteer events inviting all but only successfully attracting us. We’ve even tried to organize our own nature club a time or two. It’s all been fleeting.

The only thing that’s worked long-term is staying close with a handful of friends nearby and keeping in touch with our traveling friends, gathering as regularly as we can with them. Maybe that is our village, even if it doesn’t look like what most other people have. Still, we have months where we can’t help but feel lonely.

Research and experience tell me we’re not alone in our loneliness.

I hear this sentiment from countless other travel-loving moms. Also, in What Happened to You: Conversations about Trauma, Resilience, and Healing, Oprah and Dr. Bruce Perry talk about loneliness and isolation as being dangerous, saying that so many of us are using social media and text messages to fill our need for community, but the connection falls short time after time because there’s none of the real touch or consistent, in-person connection we humans have been conditioned to need.

In essence, Oprah and Dr. Perry say our minds and technology have advanced farther than our humanity can bear. After a year of pandemic life, I couldn’t agree more. I’m continually invited to virtual coffee sessions, virtual chats, virtual book clubs, and virtual cocktail hours.

And although I’m a self-proclaimed tech-loving lady (and so thankful to be able to earn most of our family income that way), daily I find myself wanting to scream,

“NO, I DON’T WANT TO ATTEND ANOTHER VIRTUAL EVENT. I WANT THE REAL THING.”

I need the real thing. And although my family says they’re fine with a village that’s just us with others sprinkled in here and there, I think they need the real thing, too. Isolation isn’t good, even when you’re isolated with the ones you love the most.

So, I will keep trying.

I have to.

Digging deep into my loneliness, I see my longing for my mom who now lives in heaven and my sister, dad, and extended family who live many states away. I also realize the role I’ve played in my own loneliness—my busyness with work, my need for alone time with my family, my bookish, stay-at-home-on-a-Friday-night tendencies, the walls I’ve put up over time, and my love for travel that has physically taken me away for long periods of time from everyone. I've been so independent for so long that I wonder if I’m even capable of finding the village I long for. I know at least some level of change is in order.

For now, my goal is to take baby steps.

Repair brokenness. Extend trust. Restore balance. Embrace small, slow victories. Even just acknowledging the need feels healing. By opening up enough to admit what I’m feeling, hopefully I can start to heal enough to let others in.

To have a village, I know I must allow others to get close enough to show me the way.

We will find our people. I have to keep reminding myself of that. We’re weird and wacky and out-of-the-box, but so are plenty of others, too. Besides, we find what we’re looking for, right? And now that I’ve said what I’m looking for, I can’t be far from finding it.

We will keep putting ourselves out there.

We will try to be a village for the lonely souls all around us.

My gut tells me we’ll find our own village right there in them.

For now, deep down I know my boys will be just fine. Before I know it, their friends will be raiding our pantry, tracking mud all over our rugs, and raising the price of our Friday night pizza bill.

And when it happens, I’ll be thankful.

Are you a travel-loving parent with conflicting thoughts about community, too?

What trips you up the most when it comes to the village mentality? Come hang out with me in the email group – I’d love to chat with you about it.